


My Picket Fence

by wondercurls1917



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, American Beauty/American Psycho Tour, Coming Out, Curly-Haired Pete Wentz, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mania, Medicine, Save Rock and Roll Tour, Slow Build, Soul Punk, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 18:04:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wondercurls1917/pseuds/wondercurls1917
Summary: It started with a phone call at nearly two in the morning......and maybe Patrick does have a crush on his best friend?What he doesn't know is that the feelings are definitely reciprocated.(Request from Tumblr)





	1. saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies

    It all started with a phone call at nearly two in the morning.

    Patrick was still awake, of course, typing up a document for one of his producers. He hadn't even realized it was even getting so late. When his phone started ringing--the funny (yet obnoxious, once you've heard it as many times as Patrick had) sound of Joe and Pete yelling about what a cool band they were together to some random person on the street--he knew _maybe_ something was up, since Pete hadn't called him for a while now. He picked up the deivce and answered with a simple but professional, "Patrick speaking."

    _"Geez, Patrick, why're you up so late,"_ Pete grumbled on the other end.

    Patrick checked the time on his clock. Instead of indulging himself in confessing he hadn't even showered yet, he responded, "Practice what you preach, Peter."

    Pete chuckled softly, but it was followed up by a quick sniffle, almost as if the man was crying. _"Yeah. I'm kind of... drunk right now, you know. I just kinda ended up sitting on my roof and decided to call and see how you're doing."_ The kind chatter was overshadowed by another sniffle and an almost inaudible whimper, cut short quick enough that Patrick wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't listening for the signs.

    "Wait, hold on," he murmured into the phone. "Are you crying, Pete?"

    _"N-no, man,"_ Pete said slowly, voice cracking harshly, which meant he probably had tears just rolling down his cheeks in waterfalls. _"I'm fine, I'm doing okay. Just..."_ He took a long pause and a shaking breath before he rushed out ugently, _"Have a nice night, 'Tricky."_

    His phone beeped, meaning Pete had ended the call. Patrick let his phone drop on his desk, hands trembling as he stood. His mind flashed back to a shitty hotel and an equally-as-shitty box of meds, torn open and almost empty in Pete's duffel bag. He remembered the conversation he'd had with his friend right before he, Andy, and Joe had went out to dinner, thinking Pete would catch up with them. He remembered it being so, _so_ late when they got back to the hotel and seeing the box and pills scattered on the edge of the mattress and the floor, remembered the run up several flights before he reached the roof, where a silhouette stood at the edge.

    Before he knew it, Patrick had his coat on and a soft blanket, and was sat in his car. He pulled out of his driveway and onto the street, revving down the road even though it was two in the morning and he'd possibly just woken up the whole neighborhood. He went through the motions as easily as he could sing, as easily as he could play guitar and drums and compose music and a whole list of other things; he drove to Pete's house like how he'd done it a thousand times before.

    He arrived in the nick of time.

*****

    Patrick knew where his spare key was. He sleeps in fuzzy pants. His favorite of their songs has been _What A Catch, Donnie_ since before it was even finished. All these facts and snippets of information roamed wild in Pete's head as he stared blankly at the sky. His phone was sat on the roof. His bottle of Whiskey was almost empty. He was going to use it to down the pills in his hand and then jump; he was high up, a fall from this height would _surely_ be his demise.

    Pete didn't hear the hatch opening as he bent to grab his whiskey. He _did,_ however, hear his best friend's frantic yet cautious steps toward him. Pete didn't do anything to stop him as Patrick grabbed the Whiskey and the pills and chucked them both onto the ground below; the distant sound of glass breaking didn't register in his ears. He didn't protest as Patrick wrapped him in a soft blanket and grabbed the phone off the roof, herding him back toward the hatch and down the ladder.

    The man was huffing and puffing when they ended up in the living room. A range of emotions fluttered across his face and Pete watched them come and go in slow-motion: anger, relief, guilt, anger again, and then sadness. He paced for a while, those emotions occasionally trading out for each other until he finally turned back to Pete; sadness had overcome everything, and there were tears forming in Patrick's baby blues.

    So many questions hung in the air, and the shorter man's voice croaked as he tried to speak but, for once in a long time, was left with silence and a lump of heat building in his throat. He stared Pete in the eyes, trying to determine whether or not he should say any of the things he was thinking of, but they were passing too fast. When Patrck finally opened his mouth to speak again, Pete cut him off.

    "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

    The tears immediately boiled over and Patrick couldn't see. He let out a choked sob. How could Pete not be feeling _any_ of this right now? It was almost like he was resistant to what the singer was feeling. He blinked when he felt soft, warm arms wrap around him, pulling him in close and keeping him there. He felt Pete lean his lips up against his forehead, murmuring the same thing over and over like a prayer or a blessing or a secret.

    "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He could tell Pete was crying now, too. He could hear it in his voice, sense it in his words, and feel it in his body. Pete was crying for probably the umpteenth time tonight because he'd tried to commit suicide and he was crying because he was sorry about it.

    "It's okay," Patrick answered in breathy sobs. "It's _okay,_ Pete. You don't have to be sorry. I've got you, it'll be okay."

    The rest of the night was spent crying together on the couch and then, when that dwindled down to nothing but short sniffles, jokes about '80s movies and their good times on tour. Patrick ended up staying the night once he'd convinced Pete to take a shower--for the first time in almost six days, the man had admitted--and had taken one himself. Pete didn't want to be alone that night and, honestly, neither did Patrick; and it wasn't like they _hadn't_ shared a bed before.

    Patrick fell asleep with Pete in his arms and himself in Pete's, dressed in his friend's extra clothing and wrapped in his blankets. He didn't think much of it at the time but one last thought fluttered through his mind: he wanted it to be this way all the time, except not following tragedy and sadness. Just this domesticated normalness. If that's what one could call it at all.


	2. trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, then angst, then angsty-fluff, then surprises. Have fun trying not to cry!

    Patrick woke up to an empty bed and the aroma of eggs and bacon floating into the bedroom. At first he tried to ignore it; he didn't want to get up yet, and he was warm and comfortable. But then it happened: the yearn for food to be in his stomach, the desperate ache in his bladder, the itching tingling sensation in his back that meant it was going to cramp soon. He got up and rushed to the connected en suite, rushing to get himself out of his clothes before he pissed himself.

    Once he'd been relieved, Patrick washed his hands and made his way down the stairs, stretching and yawning as he went. He'd almost tripped on his marathon to the bathroom, which caused a slight limp when he walked, but he didn't complain. Once he was on the first floor, he made his way to the kitchen, where Pete was putting an omelet onto a plate that was already a qaurter occupied by bacon. The man was whistling the a familiar song, one of their own. When he started whistling to the second verse, he recognized the tune as _G.I.N.A.S.F.S._ from _Infinity On High._

    "What was that verse again?" Patrick asked himself aloud. He snapped his fingers to the tempo, ignoring Pete's look of shock. _"I've already given up on myself twice--"_

    _"Third time is the charm, third time is the charm,"_ Pete finished. He was off-key, even he knew it, but Patrick loved it when he sang. _"Threw caution to the wind..."_

    They sang in tandem, both voices floating together so chaoticly yet so perfectly: _"But I've got a lousy arm!"_

    Patrick erupted into a fit of giggling, doubling over and holding his stomach. Pete watched on without the shorter man's knowledge, a small smile slipping onto his face at the sight of Patrick. He looked so _alive_ and _happy,_ despite being in tears last night. Pete wanted to trap Patrick in his arms and hold him there forever in that moment but, unfortunately, the younger man seemed to remember why he was at his friend's house in the first place.

    The giggling tapered off. Patrick's mood almost immediately dropped. He hesitantly grabbed a plate and sat at the kitchen island. Pete grabbed his own plate and set it across from Patrick before going back to the cupboards and fridge to pour glasses of juice. He was expecting the blond to speak, but what came out of his mouth made him almost drop the glasses.

    "Why didn't you tell me you were getting worse?" he asked. When he was met with silence, he continued. "I would've gone off the tour to come talk to you immediately, you know that... right?"

    Pete opened his mouth to speak, still facing away from Patrick. A small, crackling noise found its way out of his mouth. He felt his eyes welling with tears, the temporarily held off headache making a vicious reappearance (seeing as he'd taken some Advil when he woke). Since he'd gotten no eligible response, Patrick continued.

    "Pete, you _know_ I would've gone out of my way to cut this off at the root. I wouldn't just forget you like that." Patrick grew nervous, swallowing a bit and consdiering his next words carefully, hoping he didn't disgust his best friend. "I mean, I _couldn't,_ really. Who could?"

    Pete considered his next words as well. "You seemed too busy all the time. You were doing so well, and I... I didn't want to drag you down with me."

    Patrick stood as the other man grabbed apple juice from his fridge, landing his hands on the island counter harshly. His next words didn't even cross his mind before he let them out. "Who said I wouldn't _gladly_ be dragged down if it was with _you?"_

    This time, Pete actually did drop one of the glasses. "Shit!"

*****

    Patrick sat with Pete on the couch, almost six feet apart, staring ahead at an empty TV screen in absolute silence. Patrick's face was still beet red from after he made his comment and Pete's hands were sticky from apple juice. They both sat there in awkward emptiness until, finally, it was broken.

    "You know," the older man started, licking his lips, "blond looks good on you."

    Patrick attempted to keep a straight face, but the compliment caused a smile, however small it was. "I thought I had to completely reinvent myself for _Soul Punk,"_ he confessed. "After a while, I just kinda... was glad, because some of our old fans couldn't recognize me by face. They kept booing me off the stage, and one time I got so sick of it I-uh... I snapped at the whole crowd. I started crying, I was so upset. God, I-I was so _stupid..."_

    Pete remembered that show. He'd been there. He recalled having to be held back by security from punching a chick who'd called that _they liked Patrick when he was fatter,_ and he'd tried to defuse everyone from making comments about how he should _get off the stage_ or _play a Fall Out Boy song._ He remembered the rant word for word.

    _How would you guys feel about finally having enough confidence in yourself to be independant in your career,_ Patrick had yelled, _and then being told you should stop? How would you like it if someone said they liked you better when you were pre-diabetic, after working so hard on righting yourself?_ He'd gestured in Pete's general direction, which is to say he'd heard the chick. _I know I don't like it! This album is something I worked so hard on, I poured everything into this and you guys just... come here to mock me! You come here and... you come here and you... make fun of me._ The man's anger had quickly difused into a crumbling resolve. Tears rolled down his face. The crowd was silent except for mutters of concern. Pete had almost pushed his way to the front of the stage to comfort his friend. _Everyone who wants me to be like I was during my career with the rest of Fall Out Boy, leave now. The rest of you can stay; don't lie, though. I'm not coming back onstage for maybe another thirty minutes. Sorry I wasted time for some of you._

    Now, Patrick was sitting almost six feet away, redness in his cheeks and sadness in his blue hues. "Man, that night was a _mess."_

    Pete tilted his head. "I didn't go to mock you, make fun of you, or force you to come back," he told. Patrick gave him a shocked look. "You didn't waste my time at all, either. The opposite, actually. I loved the show once everyone who'd booed was out, and I made sure a few of them left. You really put the _soul_ in _Soul Punk."_

    His counterpart gave him a weird look. "You _went_ to that show?"

    "Of course," Pete replied honestly. "I especially liked that one with the, uh..." He snapped in an attempt to remember. _"Everybody Wants Somebody,_ I think it was called."

    Patrick seemed mesmerized. His answer was breathy and shaking. "Yeah. It was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way early, but only because I write when I'm stressed and anxious and this week has been a doOZY WOW


	3. one more off-key anthem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys decide to bring the band back together and learn that maybe there is something to be hopeful about in each other's feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way early but being sick in bed /does/ have its perks... sometimes lol

    Eventully Patrick had to head back home, but he convinced Pete to answer his hourly calls. Once they'd finished with the last of too many hugs to count, Patrick got into his car and gave the dark-haired man standing in his own driveway one last anxious look before he rolled down the window.

    "Call Andy, I'll call Joe," he hollered, putting his car in drive and pulling away from the house. "Then grab your journals and napkins and papers--whatever you wrote lyrics on. I'll grab my binder of spare-time and we'll meet up again later on."

    Pete's face lit up in surprise, and it turned into a smile. "Will do, 'Trick!"

    Then he was gone, and Pete was left with a smile as he stood in the middle of his driveway, barefoot with pajamas and looking like a lovestruck idiot. He _knew_ that. He wanted Patrick to know it too.

    Sighing-- _God,_ he sounded like a cliche lover--Pete turned and went into his home, pulling his phone from his back pocket and dialling Hurley. The drummer picked up on the second ring.

_"Hello?"_ came the weary reply. He sounded tired.

    "Patrick's gonna call Trohman soon, but we're all in cahoots with each other," Pete said, swinging open the door and closing and locking it behind him. He spotted the extra key that was under his welcome mat last night sitting on the tray just inside the entry hall. Patrick must've dropped it there in his haste. "As of last night, we're going to frequently meet up, he and I. He's coming to stay over later tonight to write with me."

_"That's... great, actually,"_ Andy replied. The weariness seemed to dissipate slightly. _"Is there a reason you and Stump met up last night, or...?"_

    Pete shoved his free hand into his pocket. "I was really drunk, sunk deep. He kind of, uh, _moderated."_ Andy knew what that meant. "Then he got upset this morning about something that happened at one of his shows, and told me to call you when he started driving home."

    _"Glad you're still alive, man."_ There was a chatter over the line. _"Sorry, Wentz, I gotta go. Call ya later."_

    "Okay, bye." Pete stuffed his phone into his pocket and sprinted his way up the flight of stairs and into his bedroom. Patrick had probably failed to notice the mess on his desk near the window.

    He grabbed the red journal, the black-and-blue notebook, and gathered the papers that were sloppy and nearly indeciferable compared to the somewhat neat, slightly less indeciferable official papers. He tossed them onto his bed, taking his yellow legal pad off his nightstand and also throwing it onto the messy comforter.

    Next, Pete traversed to his closet, swinging open the door and staring dejectedly at the crumpled papers littered inside. He bent to grab a few of the ones he knew would be good ones, and collected some from the shelf at the top of the closet. He put those on the bed, as well.

    Once finished, he went on his phone to try and search for inspiration for music videos. Of course, Pete coudn't stay away from writing for long, so he jotted down some notes. Lines flew from his mind like wild moths, loosely connected on the paper; only Patrick could turn them into butterflies.

    Pete waited for Patrick to return.

 *****

    As soon as Patrick closed his door, he was ringing for Joe Trohman. The guitarist (of course didn't answer at all; Patrick knew he wouldn't, he was Joe after all. He set his phone down on his kitchen table and started his chores to pass time. He started out with putting all his dirty clothes in the washing machine, moved onto washing and drying dishes, and then sent in his work efforts from the previous night before Pete had called him. A few minutes after he'd sent it in, his phone rung.

    When Patrick picked up, Joe greeted him with a nonchalant, _"Yo."_

    "Getting the band back," Patrick responded. He sensed an immediate change in moods. The guitarist went from laid-back to full of excitement. "Pete and I are meeting up at his later to discuss songs. Just called to let you know."

    Joe's response this time was much more lively. _"Okay, I'll... probably fly out in a few weeks?"_

    "That'll work," Patrick answered. He ended the call and set his phone down, excitedly running to his bedroom to grab his binder full of ideas--a plathora of pages filled with sheet music, mixed in with some lyric snippets (however little those were).

    The hours passed in a wave of humming and childish giggles and laughs. He called Pete every so often-- _hourly,_ as he'd promised--and talked while Pete was busy doing away with a few things in the background, probably cleaning up. When he finally decided to go back over with his binder and a backpack full of overnight stuff and clothes for the next morning, it was nearly seven at night. They were both ready, though, which made all the difference.

 *****

    Pete had done his two-week-old laundry, taken an in-depth shower, took a nap, ate a proper lunch, washed his piled-up dishes, straightened up his whole house, and made cookies by the time Patrick finally announced that he was on his way back over. He'd be over in maybe ten minutes tops, seeing as they lived so close together. Of course, Pete's assumption was absolutely correct; Patrick arrived there in _eight_ minutes with a backpack of his shoulder and his music binder in both arms against his chest like how a student would carry their books.

    "Would you look at that," Patrick said in awe as he caught sight of Pete in the doorway; there was a growing grin on his face.

    "What?" Pete asked, letting out a chuckle.

    Patrick reached up with one hand and pushed his fingers through Pete's hair; he hadn't gelled it today and it wasn't greasy and flat from lack of washing, it was volumous and curly and _splendid._ Pete relished in the feeling of the man of his dreams running his hand through those curls, if only for a few moments. When the blond stopped, he let out a few laughs and passed through the doorway, talkative as ever and twice as energetic.

    "I _love_ it when you don't do anything with your hair and it just... turns into a 'fro, you know?" Patrick hummed a cute little melody that Pete immediately stored into his brain for later writing. "It's soft, too, you definitely showered before I got here. Do I smell cookies?"

    Pete let out a loud laugh, closing and locking the door behind himself. "Yeah, I made chocolate chip."

    The singer dropped his bag and binder onto the couch and made a B-line to the kitchen stove, where the cookies were set in the middle on a red glass plate. Pete made his way to the kitchen slowly, watching as his friend grabbed a cookie and took a bite. As he ate the cookie, Patrick dug through the pantry and grabbed his favorite cup--a blue mug that had lost its lid somewhere nobody even knew anymore with the words **_WORLD'S BEST MUSIC-MAKER_** on it. He spoke while he shuffled through the fridge in search for milk.

    "So I had some..." He swallowed and started on another bite of the big cookie. "...pretty cool ideas for sounds. What have you got for... lyrics? Whatever's on the top of your head."

    Pete thought about it for a moment. "There's this one that goes like, uhm... I think it's like, _so we can take the world back from the heart-attacked_ or something like that."

    Patrick grabbed another cookie and his mug of milk, making a reverse B-line to the couch and rearranging himself to hold the cookie on the top of the cup and the binder in his free hand before heading upstairs, the bassist hot on his heels.

    When they got to Pete's room, Patrick plopped down on an unoccupied spot of the bed and Pete took his desk's spinny chair. Patrick set his mug and cookie lid on the dresser, sorting through the notebooks and papers and crubled notes until there was something that resembled neatness on Pete's bed. Once finished, the shorter man took a bite of his cookie and started shuffling through the loose papers.

    "Okay, okay, this one looks good," Patrick said after a lifetime of Pete spinning in his squeaky chair. "It kind of pairs up with one of the lines I read in..." He shifted through some of the papers he'd already read, humming a melody over and over as if to keep himself from forgetting it. He found the paper and sang the verses quietly. _"Are you ready for another bad poem? One more off-key anthem..."_

    Pete reveled in the man's voice, but it was odd. He'd written the _off-key anthem_ part out of frustration in all-caps and then crumbled the paper. "That's actually really good. I mean, not what I had in mind when I wrote it, but good. What else have you found?"

    The blond shifted through his notebooks next. He flipped the pages until he found something that seemingly confused him. _"You were my picket fence... I miss missing you now and then?"_

    Pete knew _exactly_ when and where he'd written those lines, and it had _everything_ to do with the man currently reading them. He flashed back to the night he went to Patrick's _Soul Punk_ concert and an hour or so afterward. He'd been sitting where he was now, a half empty bottle of white wine on the desk and a full glass of the drink in his hand.

    The bassist held his breath, waiting for a disgusted response to the couplet, but there was only silence. When he looked over, Patrick had a strange look on his face that could be described as what Pete felt at the moment: _half hopeful._

     But then there was a loud, angry knock on the door downstairs and Pete knew precisely who it was.


	4. and turn off the shyness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick makes the first move, but only after he's yelled at Ashlee and Pete put Bronx to bed. Things get slightly spicy, but not a lot.

    Ashlee looked pissed when Pete opened the door to her and their three-year-old son. Patrick--who'd been standing at the end of the entrance hall--almost immediately turned back around to escape. Pete's angry ex, however, had seen him and grew even angrier.

    "Are you _fucking_ _kidding_ me right now, Peter?" she nearly yelled. Bronx started crying, causing his father to flail slightly; he ended up not being able to do anything about it. "You run away with your shitty band instead of taking responsibility for your son?"

    "If you came here to mock my band, I don't appreciate it," Pete said, trying to be brave even though his voice was shaky. "I'm still recovering from something that happened last night, don't yell at me just because you want to."

    "What could _possibly_ have been so bad that you'd _still_ be recovering from it?" Ashlee sneered. "Did you stub your toe on the edge of the table?"

    Patrick came back into the hall, fuming. He stomped to Pete and lead him gently to the living room. When he came back into the hall, Bronx was still crying and the baby's mother was still pissed as hell.

    "Listen," he growled, cutting the woman off when she made to speak. "He attempted _suicide_ last night, called me and nobody else; didn't update his status, post on social media, or _anything._ He called me, I rushed over, and then I stopped him from overdosing with alcohol and jumping off the roof. I stayed the night and then we called the guys to let them know we were getting the band back together _just_ this morning."

    Ashlee was stunned for a moment, before attempting to speak again. "Well, if he--"

    "No, you know what?" Patrick surged forward, careful but quick, and took Bronx into his arms, bouncing the toddler in his arms to ease the cryin at least by a bit. "Before you start talking about _responsibility,_ take care of your kid. And if you don't want to for a while, then I'm _sure_ Pete would love to take care of him."

    Ashlee let out a huff and marched down the path without another word. Patrick closed and locked the door, carrying the three-year-old into the living room and laying him in his father's arms. Pete gave him a soft, tired smile as Bronx almost immediately stopped crying and latched his arms around his dad's neck in a tight hug.

    "Hey, buddy," he greeted.

    "I don't wike Mommy," the kid responded.

    Pete was shocked. Patrick went to the kitchen and grabbed a sippy cup from the pantry, filling it with milk and putting the lid on before grabbing a cookie and taking it out to Bronx. The boy sat on his dad's lap and accepted the treat and drink.

    "Thank 'ou, Unca 'Trick," he mumbled around the cookie.

    Patrick just smiled. Pete bounced his son a bit, holding him tight as every father would do under these circumstances. Bronx ate his cookie as Patrick collapsed next to Pete and turned on the TV, switching channels until he found an interesting show that had the potential to be kid-friendly. As the three sat in comfortable silence, watching the show and eating cookies that had been long-cooled, Patrick's hand found Pete's and their fingers laced in perfect synchronization.

    Soon enough, they had all fallen asleep where they laid on the couch; Bronx leaned up against Pete's chest, Patrick on his shoulder, and Pete's head leaning on the crown of Patrick's head. Pete jolted awake sometime near midnight, glancing around in the dark room with heavy eyes. He nudged Patrick over to lay on the couch and carried Bronx up to the bed in the spare bedroom, leaving the door wide open after he tucked his kid in. When he went back downstairs, he saw Patrick looking around with hazy, half-closed eyes, half askew where he laid on the couch.

    Pete picked him up, too, and hefted him up the stairs and to his own room, clearing off the bed and laying Patrick down under the covers. The man stared at him from where he rested.

    "What're you doin'?" Patrick slurred, voice rough from sleep as he watched Pete sit at his desk. Pete rubbed both hands down his face and glanced back at the blond. "Come to bed."

    Pete swallowed as he picked up the pen, trying to protest with a weak, "But I--"

    "No, hold on." Patrick squirmed out from under the covers, toeing off his shoes and peeling off his socks. Pete tilted his head at the shorter man as he continued, unbuckling his belt and pulling it off to drop it in a pile on the floor with his socks and shoes. Patrick's Adam's apple bobbed. "Do you want to watch, or should I go to the bathroom?"

    Pete's confidence level went through the roof. "I- yeah, I'll-I'll watch. Do you want me to watch?" He stood, shuffling over to the open door to close it. Patrick's eyes followed him.

    "Yeah, I want you to watch." Pete stood barely three feet away as Patrick stripped off his tee shirt. "Maybe you could participate."

    Pete smiled, placing his hands on warm, pale sides. "I thought you didn't feel the same way. Hell, I thought you didn't even _notice."_

    "I may be stupid," Patrick sighed, "but I'm not _oblivious."_ He reached for the hem of Pete's shirt and pulled it up and over the man's head. Pete smiled and ducked forward, catching Patrick's lips with his own. When they came back for breath, Patrick stared at him with his wide eyes. "That was single-handedly the _best_ kiss I've ever recieved in my whole life."

    "Hell yeah," Pete said quietly. His hands strayed to Patrick's hips as he leaned in for another kiss, lips heading south until he was kissing down the younger man's neck. "I'm gonna fucking _marry_ you one day, 'Tricky."

    Patrick lifted Pete's chin and kissed him again. "I'm holding you to that, Wentz. I'm gonna make you propose on stage with a big bouqet of roses with the lights all colored red while we're in the middle of a fuckin' song."

    Pete grinned against his new boyfriend's lips. "I'll make it happen somehow."

    A devious look crossed Patrick's face. "How 'bout we turn off the lights?"

    "And the shyness, too," Pete responded, diving in for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super late but I was dealing with a schedul change at school and my sister and my mom arguing. Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will hopefully be up sooner.


	5. like your favorite record used to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short breakdown after the first show and a competition between tours.

_**FIRST DAY OF SAVE ROCK AND ROLL TOUR** _

_**END OF SHOW** _

    Patrick heaved a sigh as he walked offstage. Sweat dripped into his eyes and made his clothes that much heavier as he walked, but he kept going until he was at the dressing room. Pete entered maybe two minutes later, his bladder relieved after holding it for the whole show.

    "Hey," Patrick greeted from where he sat on the couch, voice rough and quiet.

    "Hello there," Pete replied, leaning down over the back of it to peck his boyfriend's lips. "Let's get cleaned up so we can get back on our bus, we gotta be in Massachusetts tomorrow."

    "I know." The singer took off his fedora and tossed it onto the cushion next to him. "And then New York, and then--"

    "Calm down." Pete jumped the back of the couch and landed next to Patrick. He pulled the younger man so he was laying on his lap. Patrick let out a groan of frustration. "You know you can talk to me."

    "It's just..." Patrick turned his head so he was facing the bassist's stomach. "What if this album ends up like another _Folie?"_

    Pete combed his fingers through Patrick's sweaty hair. "It won't. I promise. Anything that sounds _that_ good would _never_ crash and burn."

    Patrick's eyes twinkled when he met Pete's. "You really think it's that good?"

    The taller man smirked. "Baby, I _know_ it's that good."

    "Did you know I love you?"

    "Yeah." He smiled down at Patrick. "I kinda do."

 

_**MIDDLE OF THE SAVE ROCK & ROLL TOUR** _

    "There is _no way_ you can write another song like how you wrote _Sugar,"_ Joe teased over his bottle of beer. "You just can't. I _still_ don't believe you wrote _Sugar_ the way you did. Had to be pre-written or something."

    Patrick's face went beet-red. "That is _not_ fair, Trohman. When was the last time _you_ composed a song just from words?"

    "I'll go get your Mac," Pete said, standing from his spot next to the singer and hurrying up the stairs to do as he said he would.

    The guys had come over to discuss a new test album, but Joe had brought beer, which meant he, Pete, and Patrick were drinking a bit while Andy had a water bottle. And now, later into the night, Joe was telling Patrick he couldn't write another song as quick as he wrote _Sugar, We're Goin' Down,_ which had caused Patrick to go almost ballistic; Pete had to hold him back a few minutes earlier.

    When Pete came back down, Patrick was going through his phone in a very angry, determined manner that he'd seen only a few times before. He set the Mac down and sat close to his boyfriend, nudging the younger man's shoulder with his own. The singer almost immediately did a dive for it, grasping it and pulling it into his lap.

    "I pulled some lines from your old blogspot and some... texts you sent me, found a few things I thought I could use. You got any good material?" Patrick showed the lines he'd chosen on his phone: _play it agains_ and a section of Pete's little love confession paragraph, _you were the song stuck in my head, every song I'd ever loved._

    Pete whipped out his phone, scrolling through notes. "How about a song about, uh, kind of love on the road? Didn't that blogspot post have something about confessing to someone riding shotgun, or am I getting a new revelation?"

    Patrick tapped on his phone for a moment. "No, that was there. It says, _when I confessed to you riding shotgun asleep under purple skies._ We're _definitely_ using that."

    After about thirty minutes, the two of them had managed to configure a song, using one of the melodies Patrick had gotten stuck in his head. The other three were silent as the brunet sang the unmade song all the way through and then went back to add harmonies and special effects. Once he was finished, he made a cocky face and unplugged his headphones.

    "I present to you, Joseph Trohman, _Favorite Record,"_ he said matter-of-factly.

    The man pressed play and they were all blown away at the perfect happy quality of the song, the nostalgic-sounding lyrics about dancing and songs playing again and again. Pete pressed himself up against his boyfriend, wrapping an arm around Patrick's shoulders. Little bits and pieces of autmomated riffs peeked through every verse, and Patrick's voice reached climax at the end in a breathtaking last line.

    "Man, _fuck me,"_ Joe sighed. "I owe you my _greatest_ apologies, Stump. You win."

    "Yes!" Patrick pumped his fist. He paused. "God dammit, now we have to make an album, don't we?"

    Pete let out a laugh while Andy groaned. "Well Hurley over there doesn't seem so enthusiastic, but I _suppose_ we can work on it during the second leg of this tour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so very sorry this chapter is so later, my tablet had to be rebooted twice before it could get a Wi-Fi signal. I'll try to get the next chapter up sooner and thanks for the patience, guys! Also I know it's kind of short considering the long break, but the next chapter will be much longer, I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> IT'LL BE SO MUCH BETTER IN THE NEXT CHAPTER, I SWEAR. I'M SWAMPED WITH HOMEWORK AND I'M FAILING IN TWO CLASSES, BUT HOPEFULLY I'LL BE ABLE TO UPDATE BY NEXT TUESDAY AT MOST.


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